


Fire in His Eyes

by phonesitin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also known as: Enjolras hates Grantaire, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically everyone is mentioned at some point, But not really i mean this is an enjoltaire fic, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Other, Police Brutality, Violence, idk any other tags im still writing the story so i'll add more the deeper i get into the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phonesitin/pseuds/phonesitin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is running late and doesn't have time to go to his usual coffee shop, and so he's forced to get his daily dose of caffeine from his college's notoriously awful coffee shop. There he meets Grantaire. // unfinished and never to be completed because my old computer crashed and i lost everything and i can't remember how i was going to end it anymore. sorry guys</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It should be noted that this will be updated irregularly, as I am still writing the story. I have about 6 chapters written, so hopefully it won't be a very long delay, but we'll have to see.
> 
> It should also be noted that there are some tense shifts between chapters. I'm to blame for this, as I skipped ahead and wrote a chapter I really wanted to write and didn't realize the tense was completely different until after the chapter was finished, but I liked how it was written too much so I haven't gone back and altered the chapter to be in the proper tense.
> 
> The first few chapters are in past-tense -- then it shifts forward to present-tense, and I'm hoping to keep it that way. Hopefully the tense shift doesn't deter any of you from reading.

Enjolras knew he was in for a world of trouble the moment he first opened the door to his college’s cramped coffee shop. He usually didn’t come to this location, but he didn’t have time to go to his other usual coffee location, and so he had been forced to choose between crappy caffeine or no caffeine at all.

Enjolras reasoned he would need a cup of coffee if he was to force himself to sit through his Political Sciences class. It wasn’t that he disliked Political Science, it was his teacher that bored him to tears. It was quite obvious that his teacher knew virtually nothing about the subject (in actuality, Enjolras just thought his opinions were bullshit and completely disagreed with him).

Adjusting the strap of his messenger bag, Enjolras slightly shifted the bag’s weight and stepped into the coffee shop, a blast of cold air greeting his face and brushing his blonde hair into his face. Irritated, he brushed the strands aside and headed over to the counter.

The coffee shop smelled of cheap coffee beans and an overabundance of vanilla syrup. Around him, students were chatting away and lamenting about their projects and papers and what-have-you, while others discussed how annoying the new Head of Security, Javert, was.

While the girl in front of Enjolras continued to change her order an inestimable amount of times, Enjolras contented himself with staring at the menu. By the time he settled on an Americano, the girl was fishing the last quarter out of her wallet and proudly handing it to the exhausted barista.

“Thanks for buyin’ and supportin’ our students,” the barista said mechanically, popping open the cash register and placing the wad of ones and spare change the girl had given to him. He had scruffy, black hair that curled over his forehead and threatened his eyesight. His hair was incredibly curly.

The girl said something incomprehensibly and scurried ahead to the counter, eagerly awaiting her drink. Enjolras shuffled forward. “What can I get you?” The barista muttered, scratching at his chin.

“I’ll get a medium Americano, please,” Enjolras said, passing a 5 dollar bill to the barista. A glance at his nametag told Enjolras his name was Grantaire.

“Just an Americano?” Grantaire responded, slightly surprised. “Usually people ask for extra milk, extra foam, sugar-free, extra pumps of vanilla syrup or whatever. You want _just an Americano?_ ”

“Is there a problem?” Enjolras returned sharply, furrowing his brows together as he spoke. Something about the barista greatly irritated him.

Grantaire paused, and then grinned a little. “Not at all, O loyal customer. You make my job easier.” He paused and grabbed a cup and a Sharpie, poising the marker over the cup. “Name?”

This was the tricky part, as most people butchered Enjolras’s name (“Een-jol-razz” seemed to be a common mispronunciation).

“Um, you can just write down E,” Enjolras said, waiting patiently for his change. Grantaire raised an eyebrow from underneath his bangs, but wrote down “E” on the cup nonetheless.

“What’s your real name?” Grantaire asked, punching a button on the cash register and fishing out Enjolras’s change. “Elizabeth or something?”

Enjolras’s irritation grew. He was notorious for having slightly feminine features, and was often mistaken for a girl. And right now, he couldn’t tell if Grantaire was joking or if he was genuinely curious if he was a guy or a girl.

“How about I keep coming back here until you guess my name?” Enjolras ventured, pointing a finger at Grantaire’s chest. A sort of challenge.

“And what if I don’t want you to leave by the time I get it right?” Grantaire responded immediately, a small grin decorating his features. Enjolras frowned, immediately regretting his decision.

“I guess you’ll have to come up with a fake name for me, then.”

Grantaire paused for a few seconds. The customer behind Enjolras cleared his throat irritatedly. “Apollo,” Grantaire decided, shoving Enjolras’s receipt and change into his empty palm. “Now shoo. Your drink will be up in a bit.”

It became clear to Enjolras that Grantaire referring to him as “Elizabeth” was a joke, and not a question. Internally, Enjolras felt relief at not confusing yet another person. He nodded and headed over to the counter, leaning on the wooden surface.

When Enjolras received his drink, he noticed a bunch of digits scrawled hastily on the bottom of the cup. He couldn’t help but scoff at Grantaire’s nerve.

Cup in hand, Enjolras began to head to his Political Sciences class, blowing through the small hole in his coffee cup in a piteous attempt to cool the drink down. He ignored the scrawl of numbers on the bottom of the cup – there was no need to consider Grantaire a friend.

Les Amis was a politically-minded club that Enjolras founded. It was centered around removing corruption from the government and the police force. It was a relatively small club, with about 14 people making up the group. Among those people was Enjolras’s best friend: Marius Pontmercy, who had joined primarily because Jehan, another close friend, had managed to convince Marius that he could meet a girlfriend through the group.

As it stood, the only girl who had joined Les Amis was Eponine, a spunky, bright-hearted girl with a troubled past. She got along easily with those around her, and had a major crush on Marius (who was blissfully unaware of this fact).

The door to Enjolras’s Political Science class was a heavy one, but he managed to push the door open and step inside without turning too many heads. Many of the students were just settling down in their seats, with various packets and textbooks strewn about the desks in the large classroom.

Enjolras headed towards his usual spot towards the middle of the classroom where he sat by his friend Combeferre, who just so happened to also be a part of Les Amis. Combeferre raised his head in acknowledgment and smiled at Enjolras, who returned the smile with a wave and a stony expression.

“You’re a bit late,” Combeferre pointed out, tapping his pencil lightly on the cream-colored desk. “You’re usually here at 9:15.”

“I got held up by a barista,” Enjolras countered, gesturing to his cup of coffee. He removed the paper cup, watching as the steam danced away from the brown liquid.

“You bought coffee from the college’s coffee shop?” Combeferre asked, looking truly perplexed. “I thought you hated that coffee.”

“I do. I didn’t have time to run by Beans and Drinks,” Enjolras explained as patiently as he could, feeling his patience wear thin. A vice of Enjolras’s was that he was easily irritated and easily impassioned.

Combeferre said something along the lines of, “oh, I see,” and turned back to face the professor, who was beginning to start his lecture.

Enjolras pressed the cup to his lips and took a sip of his Americano, face wrinkling slightly.

It truly was cheap coffee, laced with nothing but bitterness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't really use AO3 in all honesty (I let poor Ven do all the editing and html formatting on TBHSL and Eyes Wide Open) so I have no idea if there's a way to use the tab button on this formatter. If somebody could let me know how to do it (or if you even can), that'd be great.
> 
> Here's the second chapter -- yeah, it's up pretty quickly. But it's mostly an introductory chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Beans and Drinks (affectionately referred to as The ABC Café) was the cafe in which Les Amis also resided, meeting every Tuesday and Thursday after school at 6:30. But most everyone in Les Amis showed up there every day, having nothing better to do with their time. Enjolras’s entire friend group was a part of Les Amis, in fact. So they usually met up at Beans and Drinks and headed off to someone’s apartment or dorm room if anyone got bored.

Beans and Drinks made a point of hiring many college students, and so, if possible, Enjolras did his best to sway the baristas working there to join Les Amis. One of the more well-known baristas was Cosette, a lovely girl with blonde locks that framed her face perfectly. She had a delicate frame and was kind to everyone she knew. If memory served correctly, Enjolras believed that she majored in Literature History.

In fact, Marius had the largest crush on Cosette, a fact which he made well-known to everyone, especially poor Eponine, who was very close to the blonde. Many a time he had forced Enjolras to listen to his poorly-constructed poems and love songs and rambles about “her beautiful eyes and perfect hair and oh my GOD Enjolras she’s just perfect.”

It was disgusting, in all honesty. But Enjolras understood that Marius was smitten with her, and so he did his best to stay out of it and remind Marius what was more important (that is, the corruption in the police force) if he really needed it.

The bell swung heavily as Enjolras entered the café, heading over to the group’s usual spot. Eponine and Courfeyrac were already there, grinning and chatting about the day’s events. Enjolras swung his messenger bag off of his shoulder and slid into the circular bench, sitting next to Eponine.

“Hey, Enjolras!” Eponine said quickly, turning back to Courfeyrac almost immediately, “Anyways, so there I was, standing around and smoking a cigarette when this girl comes up to me and demands me to stop smoking. So of course I tell her it’s a free country, but then she told me I was killing the trees. How stupid do you have to be?”

The babbling continued on and on, so Enjolras tuned Eponine out and thought back to the coffee shop and Grantaire, with his long, scruffy hair and slight stubble on his chin. The more he thought about the day’s events and the questioning of “Elizabeth?” with sarcasm dripping off of Grantaire’s voice…thinking about how Grantaire referred to Enjolras as “Apollo,” with just the same amount of cool, the angrier Enjolras got.  
He realized he was scowling when Eponine asked him, for a third time, why he was so mad. 

“Hm?”

“You’re making the exact same face that you made when you found out Joly was leaving Les Amis,” Eponine explained, raising an eyebrow.

Courfeyrac chuckled from behind Eponine, leaning forward slightly, putting his weight on his elbows. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt. “What happened, Enjolras?”

“I just met some idiot barista at the college’s coffee shop. Nothing interesting,” Enjolras said, dismissing the topic with a slight wave of his hand.

“Was it Grantaire?” Eponine exclaimed, almost immediately, clapping her hands together with glee.

Shocked, Enjolras turned to look at her. “How did you know which barista it was?”

“Grantaire and I are close. He’s probably the only guy that’d be able to make someone scowl upon immediately meeting him.” A slight pause hung in the air, before Eponine continued. “He’s cool. I think he’s majoring in Fine Arts.”

“Why didn’t you ever bring him to Les Amis?” Courfeyrac inquired, prodding Eponine lightly in the side with an accusatory finger. She squealed in response, inching away from Courfeyrac and pressing into Enjolras’s side in an attempt to get away from him.

Eponine opened her mouth to answer when the bell to the door jingled noisily. In stepped Marius, Combeferre, and Jehan. Immediately, Eponine fell silent and watched Marius as he, in all his freckled glory, immediately strode over to the counter and began to make conversation with Cosette, who was currently dusting off the countertop. They immediately started a friendly chat. Eponine’s expression visibly fell.

Combeferre and Jehan made their way to the table and settled down, with Combeferre nestled in between Enjolras and Jehan. “Afternoon!” Jehan crowed, his voice sonorous and slightly higher than many people expected it to be.

Eponine hesitated, turning back to Jehan and Combeferre. “Hey, Jehan. Did you help lover boy with his poems?” She gestured to Marius with her thumb, doing her best to look as happy as she normally felt.

Jehan just chuckled and leaned forward slightly, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. “There’s no helping Marius. He’s on his own,” he said, beginning to get out of the booth to go buy a drink.

“Cosette’s too good for him,” Combeferre added, nodding his head in agreement with Jehan, who said something like, “I know, right?!” in response.

Around him, Enjolras’s friends babbled noisily about the idiots on their campus (“they’re all white and basic as fuck,” Jehan lamented once, to which Eponine had crowed out an “Amen!”) and the hot girls in their classes (Courfeyrac wouldn’t shut up about this Asian girl in his Literature class).

For quite possibly the first time in his life, Enjolras found himself unable to think of some politically inspirational exclamation. In fact, if he wasn’t spouting off about justice or something else he was interested in, Enjolras was generally one of the quieter members of the group. It was just that he was usually talking about politics, and so nobody ever realized that he was actually a fairly silent individual.

“Does anybody want to do something?” Eponine broke in, pointedly looking at Marius, who was instead looking over his shoulder at Cosette, who was humming a small tune to herself. Again, she frowned, lips thinning into a narrow line.

“We can always head to The Hill,” Courfeyrac offered helpfully, already getting to his feet. “I brought a Frisbee.” The Hill was the college’s giant patch of grass in the center of the campus. Many students gathered there after school.

“I’m kind of hungry, actually,” Combeferre interjected. “Could we run by Five Guys or something first?”

Jehan lazily looked at Combeferre from the corner of his eye. “You’re always hungry, Combeferre.”

“He’s a growing boy,” Eponine said, sneering at Combeferre as she spoke, who laughed good-naturedly.

“I really hope not! Have you seen me? I’m 6’4, for crying out loud,” Combeferre replied, gesturing to himself rapidly. “Five Guys first, and then The Hill. Does that sound good?”

Murmurs of assent spread across the group. Enjolras scratched at his cheek, picking his words carefully as he spoke. “I think I’m gonna head home actually. I’ve got a paper I need to write.”

Marius turned around, suddenly aware that his friends were having a conversation without him. He looked at Enjolras with pity. “Good luck,” he called out to his friend. Enjolras just shrugged and pushed his way out of the booth.

“See you guys tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder, waving to his friends as he stepped into the brisk air. The temperature had dropped significantly, and there was a slight breeze waving in the air. Dusk was already threatening the hot day, with the sun slowly beginning its long descent behind the horizon. The sky was tinged pink at its edges -- a sign the day was coming to a close. Enjolras allowed himself a few moments to admire the sky, and then started his walk back to the apartment.

Enjolras roomed with Courfeyrac, and the apartment was relatively small but provided the necessities of living. Both men were pretty organized, so the apartment never got too cramped. Besides, Enjolras spent most of his time at Beans and Drinks or at Marius's apartment.

When he arrived, Enjolras swung his messenger bag off of his shoulder and onto the floor, where it landed with a dull thud. Then he fell back onto the couch, exhaling sharply. Today had been a strange day. He stared at the white ceiling for a few minutes, ultimately deciding to rest his eyes.

Within minutes, he had fallen asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Again, Enjolras found himself in front of the doors to the college’s coffee shop, mentally cursing himself for doing so. It wasn’t like the coffee was any good. And Grantaire pissed him off.

Nonetheless, he stepped inside and walked to the counter once more, where Grantaire stood, eyebrows arching with surprise at seeing Enjolras once again. “Hey, you’re back! Did you ever check the bottom of your cup?” The black-haired barista tried to fight back a rising grin, running his tongue along his teeth. His right hand twitched slightly with anticipation.

Enjolras contrived curiosity, refusing to make eye contact with Grantaire, looking up at the menu as he spoke. “I didn’t realize baristas actually wrote messages on their cups. Isn’t that something that only happens in crummy romance movies?” In all honesty, Enjolras couldn’t place a romance movie to the aforementioned cliché.

Grantaire laughed, his voice harsh and discordant against the coffee shop’s background music. “That’s rude, Apollo, denying a prayer from one of your great worshippers.”

Irritation pulsed through Enjolras’s blood. The name Apollo was beginning to really grate on him, despite it only being the second time he had been referred to as such. “It’s just E, remember?” He clenched and unclenched his hands, beginning to search for the cash in his wallet. His blood rushed through his body with each clench.

“Right, right,” Grantaire said, still grinning from ear-to-ear. He leaned against the countertop, haughtiness vivid in his expression. Then, with apparent indifference, Grantaire looked at his hand and picked lightly at a scab. “What can I get you, _Apollo_?”

Enjolras’s short temper burst, and his countenance immediately turned fiercely cynical. “You piss me off,” he blurted out, before hastily adding, “An Americano would be great.”

Grantaire laughed again and grabbed a cup, scribbling out “Ella” onto the cup and passing it off to another barista, who looked at the name, then to Enjolras, and curiously raised an eyebrow. But the barista said nothing and turned away to make Enjolras’s drink. Mentally, Enjolras cursed Grantaire for what seemed like the fifth time in the last two minutes.

Again, on the bottom of the cup was the same mess of digits that Grantaire had written the day before, coupled with another sentence that said, “don’t be a dick!” Again, Enjolras ignored the message and finished his drink, tossing the paper cup into a trash can without so much as a second thought. It never occurred to him that Grantaire might have feelings.

The next day was an atrociously hot one, and once more, Enjolras entered the now-crowded coffee shop. Many students had gathered in clusters, mourning over the heat and lack of air conditioning in the dorm rooms. In order to make up for the blistering heat, iced tea seemed to be a common order today.

Grantaire immediately noticed Enjolras upon entry, turned to his co-worker and muttered something, who nodded in reply and took over his position for him while Grantaire made his way out from behind the brown countertops. He gently pushed a customer aside, and greeted Enjolras with a wave as he approached him.

“I’m surprised to see you today, Apollo.” Grantaire remarked, dusting his hands off on the dark green apron he wore. Today he wore a similarly-coloured beanie, pressed down tightly against his curls, which threatened to spill out from under the hat.

“It’s E.” Enjolras said through gritted teeth, jabbing Grantaire in the chest with a single finger. He felt as if hanging out with Grantaire would make him age prematurely.

“Oo, not so loud. My head’s killing me. The coffee shop is loud enough on its own.” Grantaire didn’t pull away from Enjolras’s accusatory jab, and continued to make eye contact with the blonde. He had a slow, steady gaze to him, and Enjolras could pick out Grantaire’s disinterest easily. All at once, it occurred to Enjolras that Grantaire was always bored. “Did you check the bottom of your cup this time?”

Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes, pulling his hand back to his side, where he thrust it into his jean pocket. “Why are you so damn insistent upon me adding you to my contact list?”

Grantaire shrugged, already making his way behind the shoddy counter, “Because you’re fun to piss off!” He called out, resuming his position at the cash register. Enjolras ordered an Iced Tea this time around (the name on the cup was Eric), and for a third time, disregarded Grantaire’s number on the bottom of the cup.

Later, Enjolras decided to confide in Eponine about Grantaire, and how much he pissed him off.

“You get used to it. His ability to piss people off is why I’m friends with him. He’s actually a pretty laidback guy,” Eponine replied lazily, pulling her brown locks up into a messy bun. “Got a bit of a drinking problem though. He’s also super cynical. Like, Rene Descartes level cynical. It’s kind of impressive, actually.” She pulled her hair out of her bun and re-did it, patting the knot of hair with satisfaction.

Enjolras frowned and inclined back on the couch in Eponine’s apartment, running a hand through his own hair with agitation. “Why don’t you just add him to your contacts? He might be a useful candidate for Les Amis,” she continued, glancing at Enjolras from the corner of her eye.

“No he wouldn’t,” Enjolras returned immediately, “We don’t need skeptics in Les Amis.”

Eponine shrugged and grabbed a pillow from the couch, holding it tightly to her chest. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and then proceeded. “Maybe I’ll invite him for you, since you’re too chicken to ask him out.”

Enjolras was the only one who hadn’t had a single girlfriend or boyfriend in the group (“What the fuck?” Bahorel had said with surprise, “Enjolras is literally the hottest guy I’ve ever had the honor of laying eyes on.”), and so jokes about him finally dating someone were commonplace with Les Amis. They were incredibly annoying to listen to – at least, that was how Enjolras felt. Everyone else found these jokes to be positively hilarious.

“Let’s not start up with the jokes,” Enjolras hissed. “How are things with you and Marius?”

Eponine sighed loudly, and Enjolras immediately knew the answer. “He’s so fucking oblivious! I hate it!” She exclaimed, punching the pillow with obvious anger.

Awkwardly, Enjolras extended a hand and patted Eponine on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Consoling had never been Enjolras’s strong point. He always felt disconnected from other people’s emotions. While he could easily understand the logic behind justice and the necessity of it (that was why he was so impassioned by politics), he was at a loss when considering his friends’ feelings.

Eponine sighed and leaned back into the brown cushions of the couch, scowling. “It’s not your fault. I wonder if Cosette even knows how he feels?” She didn’t look at Enjolras as she spoke, instead she just stared at her feet. A forlorn sadness had suddenly overcome the brunette.

Enjolras just shrugged.

The next day came and went (the name on Enjolras’s cup was “Emmet”) without much happening until Enjolras stepped foot into Beans and Drinks. No one from Les Amis was there, and various students had gathered in clusters, whispering to one another about their daily activities. The café was emptier than expected, and Enjolras was turning to leave when he heard a familiar voice.

“Apollo!”

Immediately, Enjolras’s heart sank. He turned to his left slightly, looking at Grantaire with agitation. He was perched in the group’s usual spot, leaning over the table with obvious excitement. “Why are you here?”

Grantaire whistled a hearty tune and propped back in his chair, twirling a pencil between his thumb and forefinger. “A little birdie told me to come down here. This place is a helluva lot better than the college’s coffee shop.” He indicated to the paper cup he had, presumably filled with coffee or tea. But then Grantaire got up and walked to the trash can, throwing the cup away. He turned on his heel and walked back to the table, gesturing for Enjolras to sit down as he did so.

“God damnit, Eponine,” Enjolras thought angrily as he walked over to Grantaire, sitting down on the opposite side of the table. A sketchbook laid in front of Grantaire. It had been opened to a new page.

“Are we calling Enjolras ‘Apollo’ now?” Cosette called out, leaning slightly over the countertop. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “How pretentious of you, Enjolras!” Enjolras opened his mouth to say something in response, but was cut off by Grantaire, who gasped and slammed his palms against the wooden table.

“Your name is Enjolras?! Like ‘To terrify’!?”

Enjolras grimaced. “Cosette, you traitor!” He shouted over to her, swiveling in his chair to face her as he spoke. “And where’s everyone else?” Cosette, giggling, pretended not to hear him, turning away from the agitated boy, playing some sort of game on her phone.

Grantaire chuckled, “Looks like I got your name right. Now you’re obligated to add me to your contacts.” Enjolras sulked, but fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Grantaire, who happily put his number into Enjolras’s phonebook. “Eponine sure is a great friend,” Grantaire crowed.

At that exact moment, Eponine came traipsing into Beans and Drinks, and feigned surprise at seeing both Enjolras and Grantaire. “Enjolras! R! I had no idea you would be here!” She exclaimed with mock astonishment. Enjolras put his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes with his forefingers. Whatever she was planning, it was ticking him off. Eponine pulled up another chair and settled down in it, leaning against the table, mimicking Grantaire’s position.

“Eponine, did you know that we’re calling Enjolras ‘Apollo’ now?” Cosette called out from across the café, an impish grin playing on her face. Eponine sneered at Enjolras, who glowered in return.

“Why is it whenever I’m not talking about justice you guys always pick on me?” The statement came out whinier than Enjolras anticipated, and inwardly he kicked himself for making it sound so pitiful.

Eponine made a pouty face and wrapped an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “Aw, E, it’s just because you get so boring when you’re not being our leader in red. Besides, you do need to get a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Whatever floats your boat.”

“I’m married to justice,” Enjolras replied, rolling his eyes and pressing his lips together with annoyance. “Didn’t you ever hear about the wedding?”

Grantaire smirked, one corner of his mouth turning upwards. “Married to a blind woman? Now that takes dedication, Apollo.” With that, he opened his bag and revealed a beer can, which he opened with his finger.  
“You’re drinking beer in a café?” Enjolras asked, shrugging Eponine’s arm away from his shoulders, “Why don’t you just go order a drink from the menu?”

Grantaire didn’t respond and just took a swig of his beer. Enjolras looked to Eponine to try and get her to say something, but she just looked slightly concerned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are probably gonna start slowing down now. The next few chapters have a lot of emotional depth to them that I want to sort out before putting them out on the internet.
> 
> Gotta love those inconsistent schedules. Thanks for reading!

Enjolras, having his name guessed, was no longer morally obligated to go to the college’s coffee shop. So he didn’t. He pretended not to notice Grantaire watching him through the window, obviously perplexed.

He also pretended to ignore the buzzing in his pocket until after his Political Sciences class, when he finally opened his phone to see what the hell was so important. A series of messages, all from Grantaire, greeted him. Enjolras inwardly groaned, unlocking his phone to read them in full.

**Grantaire: Dude why didnt you drop by the café**

**Grantaire: im hurt, Apollo**

**Grantaire: mortally wounded – I might die bcus of u**

**Grantaire: If you don’t drop by ill probably compose like a soppy song of some sort and how I cant live without seeing ur face**

**Grantaire: srsly don’t test me**

The texts had paused there, and then resumed a few minutes later (at least according to the timestamp on Enjolras’s phone).

**Grantaire: ok man you asked for it**

The next text was an audio file. Enjolras was almost tempted to just delete the file, but curiosity took hold of him, and so he tapped on the small headphones icon. “How does he have time to do this at work?” Enjolras muttered to himself. Approaching Grantaire in the first place was likely a mistake.

The file began playing almost instantaneously. There was a scuffling sort of sound, as if Grantaire were adjusting his iPhone, followed shortly by him coughing as if he were clearing his throat. Enjolras waited for a little while, but Grantaire just coughed again. Then he started to sing.

“O, great Apolloo / Why have you let me down sooooooo / You are a disgrace to the Greek Gods, I say / With your stupid fuckin’ cheekbones and – oh shit what rhymes with say –?”

Enjolras had to admit, Grantaire sounded good. His voice was deep and had a rich tone to it. He sounded almost as if he had come straight out of a musical. Most likely a musical in which everybody died. Or, everybody but the two characters who did absolutely nothing. Grantaire, Enjolras figured, would probably play one of the two aforementioned characters to perfection.

“Okay, I can’t think of anything that rhymes with say, so we’re just gonna say ‘coff-ay’ instead of coffee. With your stupid fuckin’ cheekbones and coff-aaaaaaay / O, Apolloooo / You make me soooooooo / Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.”

Then the file was over.

Enjolras typed out a reply to Grantaire, and hit send.

**Enjolras: I was in a CLASS. Jesus. Besides, Beans and Drinks has better coffee. You said it yourself.**

Almost immediately, his phone buzzed twice, signaling that Grantaire had replied. Exasperated, Enjolras unlocked his phone by sliding his finger across the bright screen. Someone bumped into him and muttered a, “hey watch it,” to which Enjolras dismisses, trying to read the text.

**Grantaire: that is NO EXCUSE Apollo cmon dude. Also im going to be hanging out with eponine and jehan later and she made it sound like ur coming so expect me to weep all over u there and not over text like some whiny teenage girl**

Enjolras, as it currently stood, was completely unaware of these “plans” with Eponine and Jehan. He wasn’t even aware Jehan knew who Grantaire was. As if on cue, he received a text from Eponine, the traitor. He tapped on her message, feeling slightly pained.

**Eponine: hey, R, jehan, and me are all hanging out at my apartment at 4:00 u are expected to come NO EXCEPTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**Enjolras: Okay, fine, fine. I’ll be there at 4:00.**

It was decided then, without much to say on Enjolras’s part. He felt slightly anxious at his friends arranging so much without his approval…he felt as if he constantly needed to be in control, and hated it when things didn’t go as planned. And Grantaire being thrown into the mix of his friends was not what he had anticipated at all.

. . .

Exactly at 4:00, Enjolras rapped lightly on Eponine’s apartment door. The hallway strangely smelt of antiseptic, which burnt at Enjolras’s nose. Then she opened the door, and smiled upon seeing Enjolras, two small dimples appearing on her cheeks. “E! Come on in.”

“What are you planning?” Enjolras asked at the exact same time, getting straight to the point. A moment of awkward silence passed between the two of them. Then recognition suddenly appeared in Eponine’s face. Enjolras swore if he looked a little harder, a light bulb would have gone on above her head.

He stepped past Eponine and into her small apartment, the scent of lavender overpowering him. Eponine just stuck her tongue out, ignoring his question. “Right, I forgot. It’s got to be a secret,” he said sarcastically, throwing his bag onto the carpeted floor.

Eponine’s apartment had a peculiar taste to it. On one hand, she loved bohemian chic. On the other, she could be incredibly grungy. Her apartment was a pitiful attempt at combining these two styles. For instance, her couch was a light brown color, covered in heaps of pastel pillows with cliché writings on them, like “Paris,” or pictures of Big Ben or what have you.

“Lighten up, wouldn’t you?” She demanded, heading over to her counter and pouring some potato chips into a plastic green bowl. “I just wanted to hang out before the Les Amis meeting today. Courf and Ferre were busy, though. And Bahorel mentioned something about he and Lesgle going to a Dungeons and Dragons meeting.”

Enjolras huffed with irritation, pressing forward. “Eponine, I know when you’re planning something.”

Another knock on the door, and Eponine stuck her tongue out at Enjolras once again. “And what’re you gonna do about it?” She said playfully, practically dancing past him to open the door. Enjolras cursed mentally.

Both Grantaire and Jehan stood there, talking as if they had been friends for years. “Ponine!” Grantaire exclaimed, “Why haven’t you introduced me to Jehan yet? This guy is practically my soulmate. He’s a poet, and a Classicist! You have to stop hiding these guys from me.” Jehan flushed bright red.

Eponine smiled and stepped aside so Jehan and Grantaire could enter the room, their hands around each other’s waists. She pointed to the bowl of chips on the counter. “Help yourself.” Immediately, Grantaire and Jehan gravitated towards the snacks. Enjolras admired just how similar they were.

On the outside, Jehan appeared like the typical “shy guy.” He blushed at everything and everyone, was notoriously awful when it came to fashion, and slaved for hours over analyzing literature. But, as Enjolras had discovered, Jehan had the remarkable power to be incredibly snarky.

After thinking it over, Enjolras came to the logical conclusion that it only made sense for Grantaire, the witty comeback master, and Jehan, the secretly sassy boy, to act like they were best friends despite only having known each other for 5 minutes. _Maybe_ more. _Maybe._

Jehan reached for a chip and nibbled on it. “So what’s the plan, Eponine?” He inquired, taking another small bite of the salty snack. His cheeks were still flushed from earlier, giving him an impression that he had suddenly de-aged to 16 again.

“I don’t have one!” Eponine responded immediately, walking over to the couch. She had a slight bounce in her step, a trait that she only had when she felt particularly mischievous. Enjolras, while not very inclined towards people’s feelings, was good at picking up his friends’ various nuances. “We can watch some episodes of LOST if you guys want.”

“Couldn’t we watch Orphan Black instead?” Grantaire inquired, settling beside Eponine on the couch. He threw an arm around her casually, and deep down Enjolras felt a twinge of annoyance. But he didn’t comment, just walked over to the couch and stared down at the two of them. “I’ve heard good things about it.”

Jehan spluttered, moving to sit on the arm of the couch. “Orphan Black? Dude, no. We’ve gotta watch Game of Thrones. That’s the only acceptable choice here.”

“I’m divorcing you.”

Enjolras, personally, would much rather watch a documentary on something great and historical like the French Revolution. But he knew his friends would never agree to something like that (The last time he had tried, Feuilly had accused him of being ‘boring and uptight,’ much to Enjolras’s chagrin.). So he remained quiet, observing the mock argument between Jehan and Grantaire. Jehan exclaimed something about Game of Thrones being “the zenith of fantastical shows,” while Grantaire had enthusiastically responded with, “I don’t even know what the fuck a zenith is, but Orphan Black is totally 100 percent superb to a zenith.”

They finally settled on alternating between Orphan Black and Game of Thrones. And so the four of them squeezed onto Eponine’s brown couch, which was truly only a loveseat. Grantaire was practically on top of Enjolras and Eponine, while Jehan perched precariously on the couch’s arm, using Eponine’s bony shoulder as balance. In Grantaire’s lap was one of Eponine’s obnoxiously coloured pillows, which he used to rest his arms on.

Grantaire smelled of cheap coffee and alcohol. It was an interesting combination, and Enjolras wasn’t sure if he liked it or hated it. He was trying to decipher his feelings about Grantaire’s scent, when his mind flashed back to Eponine mentioning something about having an alcohol problem. But as it stood, Grantaire appeared perfectly fine. He had never once appeared to be even mildly drunk. Tipsy, even.  
He briefly wondered if Eponine was merely over exaggerating, but he also knew Eponine well enough to realize she would never joke around about something like that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting! Sorry for the delay -- life's kicked up. I've written quite a bit more of the story though, so hopefully it'll start picking up again.
> 
> It's occurred to me that at the rate I'm writing, the story is going to end up being super long, so I might start condensing chapters together so that it ends up around something like 12 chapters as opposed to say....40 or something.

Once everyone had settled down in the group’s resident booth later that day, Enjolras cleared his throat to begin the meeting. Almost immediately, he felt far more at home. “So, everything’s been dying down now that Thanksgiving is around the corner,” he said matter-of-factly. “Does anyone have any suggestions on what we can do as a group?”

Cosette had joined in on this meeting, and was sitting beside Marius, who had barely noticed that the conversation had started. While she wasn’t technically a part of Les Amis, she appreciated the efforts they made towards changing the world. And, in a sense, working at Beans and Drinks so often made her a sort of spiritual member of Les Amis. “You guys could always do a bake sale – college students are always hungry. Combeferre can probably vouch for me.”

Combeferre had opened his mouth to interject, but was interrupted at the sound of Lesgle chuckling. Lesgle was notoriously unlucky, but his optimism made up for it. Many considered him to be the friendliest of the group. He befriended Enjolras when he was having a particularly bad day by buying him a coffee and approaching him while he was scowling at the grass. Lesgle had listened to all of Enjolras’s rants on that day, and while Enjolras would never admit to ranting, he was eternally grateful to Lesgle for his support. “That’s a little too cliché, Cosette. Even for an activist group,” Lesgle said.

“We could hand out flyers about a charity to students who are leaving for the break,” Feuilly suggested, turning to look at Jehan for assent. The smaller boy just shrugged, as if to say ‘Don’t ask my permission!’ Then he kind of tilted his head towards Enjolras, who was contemplating what to say.

“That’s just as cheesy,” Enjolras said, authority thick in his voice. The group immediately quieted down, and a tangible laconism filled the air where chatter had just been common. “We need something a little more…powerful. We’ve been doing nothing but talking about charities and fundraisers, and it’s time we try and rally the people.”

“We could arrange a protest on The Hill,” Courfeyrac broke in, waving one of his hands. “It’s been a while since we’ve done that.”

Immediately, Enjolras’s expression lit up and he couldn’t help but smile at Courfeyrac’s suggestion. Their last protest had been towards Christmas of last year, in which they had been forced stopped early due to a really bad snow storm. “That’s a great idea, Courfeyrac. Anybody got any ideas on a topic?” He glanced around the circle with excitement, his eyes darting from person to person. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Eponine returned his gaze – the others either glanced away or were too caught up in something else (For example: Marius had barely looked away from Cosette).

As if realizing Enjolras’s inner scorn, Marius turned back to the group and gnawed on his lower lip. It was true he cared about the people and what was right, but he was one of the less impassioned people present. “I suppose we could always talk about animal rights.”

Jehan shook his auburn-coloured head. “If we’re going to try and ‘rally the people,’ as Enjolras likes to put it, we should deal with something more important.”

Marius frowned. “Are you saying that animal rights aren’t --,” but before he could finish his sentence, Cosette gently placed a hand on Marius’s shoulder, her nimble fingers giving him a gentle squeeze.

“He didn’t mean it in that way,” she said softly. 

The argument was ended before it began, and Marius was immediately complacent at Cosette’s touch. Inwardly, Enjolras praised Cosette. It was as if she knew the sort of power she held over him. Enjolras heard a mutter of “thank god for Cosette,” which sounded as if it was coming from Courfeyrac. 

“We could talk about something like gay rights and transgender rights,” Lesgle offered.

“Oh, come on, Lesgle,” Eponine said immediately, shaking her head with slight disappointment. “Everyone and their grandma is talking about gay rights. Yeah, it’s a huge issue and needs to be addressed, but it’s also something people aren’t going to change their minds easily about. We should be more…I dunno, persuasive or something.”

Lesgle whispered something that sounded like ‘you’re right,’ and he reclined in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest as if he were going to sink into the wooden booth. He had a tendency to permit himself a few moments of anger, but once those moments had passed, Lesgle would easily return to his optimistic state.

“How about police brutality?” Combeferre said quietly, his eyes looking steadily at Enjolras as he spoke. He was always very calm, very composed in manner when it came to politics, much unlike Enjolras. He was far more interested in how the plan was laid out before doing something, while Enjolras was a firm believer in taking action to form the plan.

“That’s a good idea,” Enjolras agreed. And when Enjolras agreed with someone, it was generally a sign of overall consent, and no one felt like debating the topic further. 

The truth was, while Les Amis attempted at being as democratic as possible, Enjolras was their leader, their emperor, in his own peculiar way. He led everyone in Les Amis with his passion and his fire, and no one found it necessary to disagree with him. In a sense, Enjolras was the colour red. The revolutionary, leading his friends to their unwitting deaths without realizing he was doing so until they were lying in piles at his feet. The poor bastard, fighting for democracy and freedom without realizing that he was a king.

So the topic was decided. The next thing to do was settle a date.

“Considering Thanksgiving break is in two weeks, maybe we should do it on Friday at 4:00?” Bahorel offered, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket. “I know a lot of classes end at 3:30, so that’d give us a good chance to run into some people who are finishing up with the week.”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac began, “But it’s a Friday. You know what college students do on Fridays?”

“Not go to political protests?” Jehan offered helpfully, a small and timid smile on his face. Bahorel chuckled in response.

“That’s a good point,” Bahorel reasoned, retracting his previous statement.

Enjolras was beginning to get excited. He put his weight onto his elbows and looked across the group, trying to ignore the building inferno in his heart. “Thursday at 4:00, then. If someone can make flyers or something, that would be great. Visual aids are stupidly helpful when it comes to persuasion. Who should speak?”

Eponine laughed her hearty laugh, as if Enjolras had told the funniest joke she heard in years. Around her, Les Amis joined in her giggle one by one, as if they had been infected with some contagious disease. Irritated, Enjolras felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“What?” He tried to choke out, but nothing came to his lips. Instead he just made a strange sound, to which his friends laughed even harder at. By this point, Enjolras was fuming with the same, condescending anger he always managed to tap into at the slightest mistake someone made.

When the laughter had finally quieted down, she looked directly at Enjolras with a twinge of amusement in her deep, brown eyes. “You are, obviously.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a tense shift in it -- sorry. It's not "the" chapter that I mentioned at the top of the story, but nonetheless, from here on out it's going to be present tense.
> 
> Sorry about that.
> 
> It's also a longer chapter (compared to those before it, anyways), purely because I'm trying to condense chapters together now. Otherwise it's going to be a very, very long story. Enjoy!

“Oh, hey, I didn’t realize today was political activism day,” Grantaire says cheerfully as he walks through the doors of Beans and Drinks. His cheeks are slightly pink, and he seems looser than usual. Enjolras, on second thought, doesn’t even know how that’s possible. “Hi, ‘Ponine! Is this the group you were telling me about?”

Enjolras is on his feet before anyone else can even register who Grantaire is or why he’s here. Enjolras asks on behalf of everyone, “What are you doing here?” He half-barks, half-hisses. Grantaire doesn’t recoil and just stares at Enjolras.

“I’ve got a great friend,” Grantaire replies unflinchingly, already pulling up a chair. But before he can get the chance to sit down, Enjolras has exited the booth, and grabs Grantaire firmly by the arm. It’s apparent that he is infuriated. His jaw set in stone, Enjolras fixes Grantaire with a long, angry gaze.

“Can I talk to you outside?” He says quietly, trying to maintain his composure as he speaks. It isn’t even a question – it’s a command. Grantaire raises and lowers his shoulders, not sure how else to respond. So he decides to go with the flow.

“Sure, chief.”

Enjolras’s grip tightens, and he leads Grantaire outside and into the chilly air. Night is falling fast, and in the blue hue of the day, Enjolras appears to stand out even more. When he lets go of Grantaire’s forearm, he does so with such passion that Grantaire has to rub at his arm to regain some feeling in it. Enjolras pauses, opens his mouth, closes it, and then suddenly takes a step towards Grantaire with obvious anger.

“I don’t know what you and Eponine are playing at, but we are dealing with serious issues right now,” Enjolras says, his voice still scarily hushed. He doesn’t understand why he’s so mad – all he knows is that Grantaire and Eponine are playing some stupid game and using Enjolras as their pawn. “So if you’re going to insist upon treating me like your toy, I’m going to ask you not interfere with our god damn meetings. Unlike you, we’re actually doing stuff of great importance.”

Grantaire hasn’t stopped smiling once throughout the entirety of Enjolras’s comment, which is pissing off Enjolras even more. So he paces back and forth restlessly, trying to regain his composure and shove his feelings back to the bottom of the pile once again. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to think of some other way to berate Grantaire.

“Dude,” Grantaire suddenly says, “I didn’t even realize you were having some meeting about politics and how flaming liberal you guys are or whatever. Eponine just sent me a text saying --,”

“I’m not a liberal. They’re idiots who refuse to focus on the economic value of the country and deny the existence of evil and selfishness and malevolence – and okay, I’m getting distracted. The point is that they’re blindsided, and I won’t tolerate such idiocy before --,” before he can continue, Grantaire blurts out,

“Okay, Republican then. Whatever, dude. Jesus.”

“Fuck Republicans!” Enjolras replies immediately, his passion intensifying. “They’re a bunch of bastards who think anyone outside of the Christian mindset don’t deserve to be treated equally, and yet when someone takes their ‘rights’ away, they throw a bunch of hissy-fits and cry about --,”

“Okay, can you just…I don’t know….shut the fuck up?” Grantaire says, fishing a beer out of his backpack. “You need to lighten up. Lighten the _fuck up,_ ” he enunciates. With that, he pops the top of his beer open, lifts it to his lips, and then changes his mind, offering it to Enjolras instead.

Enjolras glares at the shiny can with a look of repulsion. “I don’t drink. Drinking is for people who don’t have the guts to face the future.”

“Suit yourself,” Grantaire says, seemingly unfazed, taking a long drink of his beer. However, Enjolras notices a flicker of something in Grantaire’s eyes, though he can’t quite place what the feeling is.

After a few moments of quiet, Enjolras’s nerve has returned to him. “I’m heading back inside. If you’re going to make yourself productive, you’re welcome to join.” The last few words are spat onto the pavement, as if Enjolras were removing a foul taste from his mouth.

Grantaire keeps looking at his beer can, suddenly accursed with some sort of spell that prohibits him from talking. It occurs to Enjolras that he might have said something that offended Grantaire. He hesitates, searching his mind for what he did.

His mind flashes back to Eponine mentioning Grantaire having an alcohol problem, and suddenly Enjolras feels something he hasn’t in a long time: shame. It washes over his whole being, and Enjolras hates it. He coughs.

“We’re having a protest on Thursday at The Hill. It starts at 4:00….if you’re interested.” Enjolras, unsure of what else to do, starts making his way back to the glass doors, pressing an open, sweaty palm to the handle.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says softly, preoccupied with a bead of water that is slowly dripping down the can. Then he tilts it back, and downs a huge gulp of the liquid.

Enjolras pushes open the door. The bell jingles noisily, and all at once the feeling of shame has left him, along with Grantaire, who remains in the cold for a few seconds, downs his beer, and walks away.

. . .

“Are you fucking stupid?” Eponine shouts immediately, shoving Enjolras with a defiant flick of the wrist. “ _I_ was the one who told him to show up. I _invited_ him. And you go and treat him like he’s a piece of garbage!”

Enjolras knows. And he regrets it. But he doesn’t know what to say, so he just gives Eponine a long look, pleading internally for her to understand.

They’re inside Eponine’s apartment (“Enjolras?” She had said sweetly, though the positioning of her smile was anything but sweet. “Want to go back to my place and _talk_ for a bit?”), in all of its Bo-chic glory. She is scowling, her eyes infuriated, but Enjolras can read another emotion flickering in them: disappointment.

“I told you he had an alcohol problem,” she continues, gesturing wildly. “You think someone with alcohol issues is just going to go home and pretend getting kicked out of a group is no big deal? Jesus Christ.”

“I invited him to the protest,” Enjolras says lamely, trying to placate his friend. His statement does nothing to quell her fury. Instead, she grabs a pastel pillow from her couch and throws it at Enjolras, who deflects it by bringing his arms to his chest. “Hey!” The pillow bounces a few feet away from him.

When Eponine gets passionate, she gets emotional. And right now, she is biting her lip, trying to ignore the quivering in her chin. “You’re such an asshole! Whatever it is you said to him was uncalled for!” She breaks out, her voice cracking as she does so. All Enjolras can do is nod at her statement, hoping that she calms down soon.

Yes, he’s mad. But right now he’s feeling far more guilt than he is anger, so he’s just trying to ride it out for as long as he can. “Fuck you and your stupid red outfits,” Eponine goes on, grabbing another pillow. “Fuck you and your constant political bullshit. You,” she pauses and throws the pillow at Enjolras, who deflects it once more. She throws another one, “Are,” and another one, “An asshole!”

“I know, Eponine!” Enjolras finally exclaims, getting fed up with her abuse. He throws his hands up into the air. “I fucked up, okay? What do you want me to do, go over to his apartment and apologize?”

“Yes.” Eponine says pointedly, her voice suddenly nothing but calm. Her hands are still trembling, but her expression is filled with nothing but deadly venom.

“What,” is all Enjolras can blurt out. It was a rhetorical question.

Eponine swipes at her eyes angrily. Then she walks to her apartment door, and grabs her keys out of the bowl on a small table. “Get the fuck in the car, Enjolras,” she commands, pointing out and into the antiseptic scented hallway. Enjolras knows better than to argue with Eponine now, so, much like a subdued dog, he walks out of her apartment and into the hallway.

Eponine takes a moment to lock the door behind her, and then they’re off, descending the ridiculous amount of stairs until they’re in the parking lot. Eponine drives a Volkswagen Beetle, lovingly named after her sister Azelma, who had unfortunately passed away many years back. “Get in,” she repeats.

Enjolras obeys, ducking into the black car and buckling himself into his seat. Eponine slides into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with such power that Enjolras fears that the door is going to fall right off its hinges. It doesn’t.

The drive to Grantaire’s apartment is a silent one, with Eponine staring stony-faced at the road, and Enjolras picking at the skin around his fingernails. Inwardly, he’s trying to concoct something to say. Just saying ‘sorry,’ probably wouldn’t cut it with Eponine. ‘Haha, I was kidding, you’re pretty cool,’ would just be a bite to Enjolras’s ego. And a lie.

By the time they arrive, Enjolras is still hopefully lost on what to say to Grantaire. He follows Eponine forlornly, praying to every single god he can think of to grant him the ability to somehow speak.

Eponine knocks on the door three times. There’s a muffled groan, followed by a very slurred, “Hold on,” and then Grantaire is standing in the threshold, eyes bleary and cheeks tinged with the pink that only comes with alcohol. “Oh, hey ‘Ponine,” he says lethargically. His eyes move slowly from Eponine and to Enjolras. It takes a few seconds for Grantaire to recognize the blonde. “Oh, shit! Apollo.”

There’s no irritation, no annoyance this time. Enjolras is just staring past Grantaire and into his apartment, which is a complete disaster. There’s empty beer cans thrown everywhere. Clothes discarded in piles on the floor. Immediately, Enjolras wishes he could go back to that moment outside of Beans and Drinks and punch his past self in the face.

Instead, he swallows and blurts out, “What’s up?”

Grantaire gestures to the pile of beer cans, “Getting super drunk,” he says, as if that were obvious enough. “Not drunk enough,” he adds on sloppily.

“Enjolras has something to say,” Eponine says pointedly, shooting daggers at Enjolras. He tries not to flinch under her gaze. He breathes in and nods, feeling the lump in his throat grow.

“I’m, uh. Look,” he begins. But then he stops and stares at a very interesting spot on the concrete. “Um.”

“Nah, dude, everything’s okay when you’re drunk. See?” Grantaire gestures to his whole body, stumbling slightly as he does so. “Not even a single fuckin’ tear. Pretty damn impressive if I do say so myself.”

Enjolras’s heart lurches. _”I fucked up, Eponine,”_ he thinks to himself.

“Do you want to come to the protest?” He manages to say, suddenly feeling mentally exhausted. Eponine jabs him in the side with her elbow. Enjolras stares at the same specific spot of concrete. “I’m sorry.” It’s a quick tacked on comment – a P.S. at the bottom of a long message about absolutely nothing.

Grantaire lets out a mighty gasp and clasps his hands to his heart. “Holy shit, the great Apollo apologized,” he drawls. His face is everything but adoring. “Somebody get me another fucking beer because this calls for a celebration.” He turns as if to head back inside, but trips on the air. So he rotates back to Eponine and Enjolras.

Then Grantaire stumbles forward and into Enjolras’s chest. Impulsively, Enjolras reaches out and grabs Grantaire’s elbows to steady him, his mind screaming ‘be careful, be careful with him.’ Grantaire reeks of alcohol and sweat this time around, and Enjolras suddenly realizes he misses the Grantaire that smelled of cheap coffee. Grantaire mumbles something and places his hands on Enjolras’s chest to try and regain his posture, patting him on his torso as he does so.

His hands slip and fall down to Enjolras’s waist, whose breath hitches on instinct. The blonde recoils slightly, pushing Grantaire away as gently as he can. Grantaire stumbles backwards, then forwards once again. His expression is full of confusion.

Then he withdraws himself from the chilly atmosphere of the outside world. “Seriously though,” Grantaire says, with as much seriousness as a very unhappy drunkard can manage, “It’s okay.”

Enjolras’s hands clench and unclench. He searches his mind frantically for something else to say. He doesn’t want to leave Grantaire’s apartment with such a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t want to think about how something he said had made somebody drink themselves into oblivion.

Pleading with his eyes, he turns to Eponine.

She understands his distress, and her features soften slightly. She steps forward to Grantaire, grabbing his shoulders so gingerly that Enjolras almost forgets it’s Eponine standing in front of him. “Do you want to watch a movie, R?” She asks, voice softer than usual.

“ _Brother Bear_ ,” Grantaire says decisively. He leans into Eponine, trying to still his swaying as he disappears back into the apartment. Enjolras hesitates, unsure if he should follow or not. He takes a step forward, then steps back, and then forward again.

He’s doing this little march when Eponine suddenly calls out, “Come on, E. _Brother Bear_ is all ready to go.”

Fate decided, Enjolras walks into the apartment and slowly shuts the door behind him. It creaks dismally, shrieking like the Tin Man to be oiled. He braces himself for a long night, sucks in a mouthful of air, and strides over to Eponine and Grantaire.

Grantaire is crumpled against Eponine, who is sitting behind him and patting his back. If Enjolras hadn’t known Eponine so well, he would have assumed that they’d be dating.

On Grantaire’s shoddy TV, complete with trickles of static running alongside the edges, is _Brother Bear_. Enjolras can’t remember the last time he had watched the movie – when he was little, it was one of his favourites. At one point in time, all he had listened to was the _Brother Bear_ soundtrack.

He wades through the inestimable amount of beer cans and settles down right behind Eponine, craning his neck in a really unpleasant way to try and make out the TV screen. All he can think about is Thursday, and the upcoming protest – if you could even call it such. His heart starts to pound.

The protest. Enjolras’s nerves begin feeling muddled. And he shouldn’t be thinking about it right now – here he is, in a dingy apartment, dealing with the fact that he had fucked up somebody’s night, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about this stupid protest on Thursday. _”Okay, well it’s not stupid,”_ Enjolras amends inwardly. _”It’s probably going to be the most important thing I do this year.”_

Grantaire suddenly lets out a heart-wrenching sob upon the death of the bear, clinging to Eponine’s arm. “She just wanted to meet up with Koda,” he laments, his fingernails digging against poor Eponine’s flesh. “Why are humans so fucking gross?”

Eponine strokes Grantaire’s hair, sincerity in her fingertips as she runs her hand through his messy curls. “I don’t know, R,” she half-whispers, half says to Enjolras, “I don’t know.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the delay. I've been really busy recently, and as such I haven't had time to proof-read and write some more.
> 
> As such, you can count on updates running slower now.

The next day, Enjolras steps through the doors and into the college’s coffee shop. Grantaire, as usual, is standing behind his cash register, gazing mournfully at his customers as he takes their orders. He glances up to see who has entered the shop, and immediately drops his gaze upon realizing it’s just Enjolras.

Enjolras wants to stomp on his own foot or punch himself.

Attempting to seem casual, he tugs at the strap of his messenger bag, wrenching it in between his hands until he’s certain his knuckles resemble that of a Greek statue’s. He walks over behind the girl in line, who is excitedly babbling to her friend about some new horror movie that had come out over the weekend.

Movie Girl is just about to tell her friend the shocking plot-twist that “literally made me jump out of my seat. Literally,” when Grantaire calls out, “Next in line,” and the duo are forced to end their conversation early. Movie Girl walks over to Grantaire and says something about wanting a Venti (Enjolras notes the strain in Grantaire’s voice as he patiently says, “I’m sorry, did you mean a large?” for what Enjolras assumes is the hundredth time Grantaire has had to explain that the college’s coffee shop is not Starbucks) soy vanilla latte with two pumps of hazelnut. 

After the girl has paid, Grantaire makes direct eye contact with Enjolras and says, “Next in line, please.”

Enjolras twists at the strap again and steps up to the counter. “Hi,” he says hollowly.

Grantaire smiles. “Hey, Apollo. What can I get you?” The edge to Grantaire’s voice is gone, and Enjolras finds that he’s slightly irritated that Grantaire is putting on a dumb façade of ‘okay’ness. That everything is fine, even though it obviously wasn’t last night when Eponine was holding back Grantaire’s hair while he vomited into the toilet.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks instead. It’s a stupid question. He knows how Grantaire is feeling. The lump in his throat has returned for round two.

Grantaire pauses and glances around him. Then he chuckles. “I’ve got a really bad headache, if that’s what you mean. Like, really fucking bad.”

Enjolras is staring at the brown countertop, his fingers now playing with the bottom of his shirt. “A medium Iced Tea. Unsweetened.” He hesitates, then barrels forward, “Do you want to start coming to Les Amis meetings?”

Grantaire scoffs, his voice sharper than Enjolras expected. He grabs a plastic cup, scribbles “Enjolras” on it with fury, and passes it off to another barista. “What, so I can be told about what a waste of space I am? Sorry dude, but I really don’t need that shit in my life.”

Enjolras fishes out the cash and places it unceremoniously on the countertop. “I know. It was rude of me. You deserved better than that, and I wanted to make it up to you.” He refuses to meet Grantaire’s eyes, unsure if his pride would even let him do such a thing. “Jehan thinks you’re really cool,” he adds softly.

Grantaire takes a moment to consider this, placing a hand to his chin. Then he nods decisively. “For Jehan,” he says, “I’ll do anything.” Then he mock-swoons, earning a disapproving glance from his co-worker as he brushes against their shoulder.

Enjolras receives his change and walks to the counter, waiting on his drink.

When Enjolras’s name is called out (horribly mispronounced, unfortunately for him), there’s no silly message, no incomprehensible mass of numbers waiting to be read. Just his name and a black x streaked through the square that says ‘tea.’

He sends a quick message to Eponine.

**Enjolras: Invited Grantaire to Les Amis meetings. Are we cool now?**

**Eponine: maybe. I guess it depends on if u act like a dick to him while we’re in the ABC.**

Then he sends another one to Grantaire.

**Enjolras: By the way, the meetings are Tues and Thurs at 6:30. But we’re usually at Beans and Drinks by 4 if you want to come.**

There’s no reply.

. . .

Today’s a Friday, and so everybody in Les Amis is beginning to make plans for the weekend. Eponine is eagerly talking with Courfeyrac and Combeferre about going to see the new horror movie that the girl in the coffee shop mentioned earlier. Feuilly and Bahorel are talking over some sort of project they have going on, and Lesgle, Jehan, Marius, and Enjolras are talking music.

Recently Lesgle has been on a real 60s kick. And by the 60s, he means The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Right now he’s discussing the ‘real meaning’ behind Yellow Submarine with such enthusiasm, Enjolras wonders if that’s what his friends see in him whenever he’s talking politics. A bunch of mumbo jumbo about absolutely nothing.

“Oh, have you guys heard that one John Legend song?” Marius offers, “All of Me or whatever? It’s really sweet.”

“Everybody’s heard that song,” Lesgle replies instantaneously, not even surprised by Marius’s comment. “I think I’ve heard it three times today. Wow, you’re really in love, aren’t you?”

Marius flushes a slight shade of red and his eyes dart over to the opposite side of the café. Cosette isn’t working today, so there’s no one to occupy Marius’s mind. He glances back at Lesgle, and then to his hands. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Personally I’ve been listening to a lot of synthpop,” Jehan offers. “CHVRCHES? Have you guys heard of them?” Nobody seems to know what he’s talking about, so Marius’s blush transfers to Jehan’s cheeks and he stares at the ground. “Never mind.” 

“What about you, E?” Marius asks, turning slightly so he’s facing the inside of the circle a little more. Enjolras shrugs nonchalantly, glancing outside every now and then as if to make sure Grantaire weren’t hovering around outside.

“Twenty one pilots, I guess,” Enjolras offers. It’s the first band that comes to his mind, and they’ve gotten fairly popular recently. He figures the others will have heard of them – and they have, because Marius and Jehan both nod their heads in approval. Lesgle shrugs.

The bell jingles noisily, and Enjolras’s head snaps around his shoulder to see who it is. Grantaire, clad in a black hoodie and baggy cargo pants, stands in the doorway. He freezes upon making eye contact Enjolras, and makes to leave, but before Grantaire can close the door, Enjolras motions for him to come over.

He does, gravitating towards Jehan. “Hey, Grantaire!” Jehan says cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the mental crisis Grantaire and Enjolras seem to be having. “Guess I should introduce you to everyone else.”  
Grantaire smiles at Jehan. The tension is visible to Enjolras – he wonders why no one else has picked up on it yet. “That sounds like a plan to me.” 

Eponine suddenly shoots a look at Enjolras that can only mean, ‘you better be fucking nice or I’m gonna break your neck,’ and he realizes just how emotionally perceptive she is.

Jehan arranges everybody into a circle, and gestures to Grantaire, who waves. He seems to be laidback once again, now that his assimilation into the group is beginning. “This is Grantaire,” Jehan introduces him smoothly. Then he goes around the circle, introducing everyone else, beginning with Feuilly and ending on Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac and Grantaire hit it off immediately, and Enjolras isn’t surprised. Courfeyrac is so bold, so strong with everything he does, that the two of them would be the best at making wry statements, high-fiving each other, and probably taking notes from one another on how to come up with the wittiest comebacks. In fact, everybody seems to really enjoy Grantaire; even Combeferre, who takes a little longer to warm up to people.

Throughout the day, Grantaire remains by Eponine and Jehan’s side. Enjolras continues to stare at him, wondering what else he could do to right the wrongs he had committed yesterday. He realizes he’s frowning when Grantaire suddenly gives him a sideways glance, pulling Enjolras out of his trance.

_”Idiot,”_ Enjolras thinks, and he immediately looks back at Marius, who is insisting that Lesgle and Enjolras listen to another soppy love song about true beauty or whatever it was Marius was into at the moment.

Grantaire and Enjolras don’t speak until they’re the last two in the café. Enjolras isn’t sure how this happened – last time he checked, Jehan was still talking about synthpop and Impressionism, and Combeferre was discussing the fall of film and how it’s similar to Lucifer falling in the Bible. But now it’s just the two of them. 

Enjolras almost begins to wonder if some West Side Story shit is going to go down, complete with snapping. Red vs black. Enjolras is thinking about the color of their shirts, but he figures he could probably use that to his advantage in some way. 

They stare at each other while Enjolras thinks. “Hey,” Grantaire says, rocking back and forth. Enjolras blinks. “Sorry about last night, it was kind of path--,”

“No. Don’t apologize,” Enjolras blurts out before he can change his mind about it. “It was completely my fault and everything that happened afterwards is…completely my fault.” How eloquent. His hands are sweaty. Oh God, his hands are sweaty. When is the last time he got nervous over something like this?

Grantaire scratches at his cheek absent-mindedly. “Um, well. Okay. Look, Apollo,” and Enjolras can’t help but glare at him. It’s second-nature now. “Shit, sorry. Enjolras,” The name is foreign on Grantaire’s tongue, and yet he manages to pronounce it with such ease. “Thanks for inviting me. Your friends are pretty cool.”

“You didn’t respond to my text,” Enjolras says matter-of-factly, and Grantaire rolls his eyes. Already, the apology is wearing off Enjolras’s conscience, and he’s beginning to feel mild anger towards Grantaire again.  
“Just because I read a text doesn’t mean I have to respond.” Grantaire says this so passively, that it makes Enjolras regret ever inviting him in the first place, Eponine’s threats aside. 

Instead he says, “Yeah, that makes sense. We’ll be here on Monday. And there’s the protest if you want to go.”

Grantaire shuffles his feet, kicking at the floorboards with a hollow thunk. “I’m not exactly the most passionate person on the planet. I mean, unless you want me to shout out dumb jokes from the back of the crowd. I can be pretty passionate about that.” He pauses and another smile begins to spread across his face, but Enjolras gets the feeling this one is slightly different. Not sarcastic, not witty. Just kind of sad. “Eponine likes to call me nihilistic.”

Enjolras’s fears are confirmed: he hates cynics. He hates people who refuse to give life a chance. He hates Grantaire. And yet here he is, inviting Grantaire to a protest that he will undoubtedly destroy in a heartbeat if he shows up.

“Well, see you later, Apollo,” Grantaire says, and the tension eases up immediately. Enjolras creases his eyebrows, but says nothing. He wants to avoid fucking up Grantaire’s night again, and he also wants to avoid another scolding from Eponine. And at the rate Grantaire was befriending people, Enjolras would probably end up with Courfeyrac and Jehan on his back this time around too.

He doesn’t reply, just watches Grantaire leave and turn the corner again. Enjolras waits a few extra seconds, and then steps back outside and gets in his car, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel to try and clear his befuddled mind.


End file.
